"The Boy Who Lived, Lost Everything, and More"
(Written with love for Sasha Fierce)
Snow dusted the rooftops and hillsides of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the students prepared to leave for the Christmas holiday. Griffindors Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger had been up for hours, packing their trunks and chatting animatedly about their plans for the school break. Harry was to join Ron and the exponentially-growing Weasley clan at the Burrow, while Hermione would join her parents, who were escaping London's wet and dreary winter season in Sydney.
In Slytherin House, Draco Malfoy rose late. His breath rose in a puff of steam above his face as he blew stray platinum blond hair out of his eyes. Sitting up, he let the green and silver quilt fall from his bare shoulders to the rich silk sheets on his bed. Draco swung his feet off the edge of the bed, toeing around for his slippers but only getting the cold stone floor.
"Ah, fuck it." Draco muttered his first words of the morning and picked his bathrobe off the back of his chair, wrapping it around his angular young body as he headed for the boys' bathroom.
The room was coated floor-to-ceiling in obsidian tiles that became faintly translucent in the light that flickered from lamps spaced along the walls. Magic, too, lit and heated the dungeon room. Draco passed a row of sinks where a pair of delinquent first-years were hurriedly brushing their teeth, and he paused in front of what appeared to be a solid panel of the same darkly transparent glass from which the tiles had been cut. He raised an ivory, long-fingered hand to the glass, which dissipated into a wall of odorless black smoke beneath his touch. Draco passed effortlessly through and nonchalantly untied his bathrobe as the entryway solidified behind his back.
Steaming, scented water poured into the deep sunken tub from silver, serpentine fixtures on the wall. Draco took an emerald-green washcloth and bar of soap from the stack of towels and bath items on the shelves along one wall and slipped naked into the warm and waiting water. Inhaling deeply, he sunk to the bottom of the tub, blond hair fanning out behind his head like the tails of one of those ridiculous albino peacocks his father had bought for the courtyard of their manor. Lucius had a Louis Quinze-esque lack of sensibility when it came to style, that fruit, all pomp and show. Draco detested it all.
Rising out of the water, he slicked his collar-length blond hair back against his scalp. Draco reached to the side of the tub, broke the wax seal of the Slytherin crest and unwrapped the tiny bar of soap from the green and silver speckled paper. The soap was also embossed with a tiny Slytherin crest and carried a woodsy, masculine scent crafted so carefully so as not to distract from Draco's fair complexion and delicate features.
His bath finished, he toweled off and headed back to his bedroom to get dressed. After belting his slim-cut black pants low around his hips, Draco picked a black blazer from his wardrobe and put it on over his thin black tee-shirt. He stuffed a pair of buttery leather gloves into his pocket and, giving himself a once-over in the mirror, he headed down to the Great Hall to make a final entrance before the holiday.
***
Platform 9 3/4 was a crowded mess of older witches and wizards anxiously awaiting the return of their brood, most of them Weasleys. Draco perched himself on a polished brass guardrail, curling his thin-soled Italian loafers on the lower bar as he scanned the crowd for his parents. They were often late--Lucius preferred to make an entrance--but after many wizard families had crossed over to the Muggle side of the station, Draco realized something was terribly wrong.
A brown ball of feathers fell from the sky, furiously flapping its tiny wings in an effort to slow its decent. Draco hopped off his perch and picked the small owl right out of its eminent and bloody demise against the pavement. Well, he wasn't Seeker for nothing.
The bird shook itself off, sending a shower of feathers to the ground, and hopped onto Draco's shoulder.
"Oh, geh-off," he muttered, brushing his hand against his shoulder, but the owl maintained its position, intently focused on the envelope crumpled in Draco's hand.
He studied the Ministry of Magic's seal on the parchment envelope before breaking the wax and pulling out a single page of sparse, formal script.
Mr. Malfoy,
I regret to inform you of a fatal accident involving your parents, occuring at 11:42 this morning in Zurich, Switzerland. Representatives of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were dispatched to the scene; however, no magical forces are suspected at this time.
Updates on the investigation will be provided as they occur.
Condolences,
Killegard Higgenbottom
Undersecretary to the Head
Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes
Ministry of Magic
"Well, shit."
Draco stared at the letter in his hand, and then looked up to the empty platform. The tiny owl hooted a low note of sympathy before chirping merrily and heading off into the early afternoon sky.
***
Draco's first stop was Malfoy Manor--or, more correctly, "Malf Man," as the wrought-iron letters woven into the tall front gate unfurled slowly. His smart leather suitcase dropped to the pebble driveway.
"What the fuck is going on here?" Draco said to noone in particular, stuffing his gloves into the pocket of his overcoat. He walked over to a stout wizard who was focused intently on magically undoing the fence. "Who are you? What are you doing?"
"Alfred Slicingham, Department of Magical Probate Law and Estate Management," the wizard replied. "Just followin' orders."
The blonde boy crossed his arms over his chest. "And whose orders are these? I am the Malfoy heir--I give the orders here!"
Alfred Slicingham shrugged and, without breaking the spell, pulled a piece of parchment from his chambray robes and handed it to Draco.
He studied the Ministry work order for a few minutes and, silver eyes ablaze, looked up to see a pair of Repo-Wizards stuffing precious family heirlooms into an enchanted Carry-all Box. The burlier of the two gave a particularly ancient Black family bedframe a hefty shove, and the entire bed--mattress and all--disappeared into the ring-sized box.
"This is aboslutely unacceptable! This property has been in my family for centuries, unlike you, fucking Mud-Bloods, who show up just because you have the least bit of ability and think you're entitled to the same rights as the rest of us! I have history--I have a pedigree, damnit!"
Something resembling a kiwi shot out a potato cannon landed in the bushes beside the gate. Lost in his tirade, Draco did not notice until the owl gave him a sharp nip on the ear and dropped a second letter in his hands.
Mr. Malfoy,
We regret to inform you that your account has been closed due to a lack of available funds. We also must regrettably inform you that we will begin to liqudate your estate to cover the present negative balance of 765,349,309 Galleons and 4 Sickles.
Inquiries about your account may be made in person.
Sincerely,
Griphook
Gringott's Wizarding Bank
Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply. Why was everyone such incompetent little snots? He eyed the Repo-Wizards angrily as they slipped their Carry-All Boxes into their robes and Disapparated. With a last look at the empty manor, Draco turned his back, raised his wand, and Disapparated as well.
***
Still not entirely used to the intense pressure of Disapparation, Draco took a few heavy breaths after reappearing in Diagon Alley. Brushing imaginary dust off his coat, he headed up the steps and through the bronze doors of Gringott's.
Draco accosted the first goblin he saw at the long row of teller stations. Forget the queue--he was too angry to be British.
"What is the meaning of this?" Draco demanded, shoving the letter underneath the goblin's nose.
The goblin took the letter in his long fingers and studied the parchment, a subtle smile crossing his ancient face.
"Ah," he murmured. "One moment."
He rummaged in a desk drawer for a moment before pulling out a folded grey newspaper--a filthy Muggle rag called The Wall Street Journal. The goblin slapped the newsprint on the desktop and pointed a dirty fingernail to a particular headline.
Draco scanned the page and looked up, appalled. "Who the fuck is Bernie Madoff?"
***
Bellatrix Lestrange silently crossed the dusty hardwood floors of the Dark Lord's current hideout. She smoothed the black silk slip over her hips, and bent over slightly, her incisors poised over her lover's milk-pale neck.
"Bellatrix." came the reply, though he did not turn his concentration towards her.
Pouting slightly, the beautiful witch knelt at Voldemort's side, resting her head on his thigh. Her knees and back whined--magic only made her body look half its age.
"Come to bed, my Lord," she purred, tracing a long fingernail along the inside of his thigh. Bellatrix looked up through her long eyelashes at the light flickering across her master's face before nipping his side, just hard enough for a little blood to drip into the folds of his heavy black robe. A pale, bony hand moved between his thighs.
He didn't move. Even his snake lay unresponsive. Bellatrix withdrew her hand and sunk back to the ground, her joints complaining. Her Lord and beloved master had been like this for weeks--he hadn't mentioned Harry Potter or even blood purity at all. The Death Eaters were becoming restless, and Bellatrix had so far been able to placate them with vague details about new magic and thinly veiled threats of death if they didn't drop the subject. There was no magic anymore, though. Just the internet.
A sharp, high-pitched cackle erupted from the Dark Lord's mouth. "First! I'm first again!" he laughed, pointing to the newly-posted comment on a particularly vitrolic White Power blog he had recently begun to frequent.
Bellatrix pressed her face against his robes to hide her eyes' rolling. Voldemort curled a hand against her scalp, pulling her hair in exquisite agony. Her eyes flicked to the screen, where Voldemort had just navigated to his AOL Mail account and began engaging whom he thought to be a Nigerian prince in a particularly humiliating ritual that would hopefully end in his painful death. The hand moved to Bellatrix's throat, nails pressing into her skin as Voldemort enjoyed tormenting the Muggle online. Her vision grew spotty and dark, and she writhed with pleasure.
Voldemort dropped his hand from her throat and went silent. Stifling a whimper, Bellatrix wiped the blood from her neck and looked up at her master's face. "My Lord...?" she tried hesitantly.
The snakelike slits Voldemort had for eyes closed, and the nostrils of his flat nose flared as he breathed. "Malfoy has lost everything. I told him to stay away from Muggle investments, and he dared to disobey me? He and that insolent slut of a sister of yours thought they knew better than I?"
Voldemort stood suddenly, throwing Bellatrix prostrate on the ground. "They have earned their reward for disregarding my orders. I only regret that I could not have given it to them." He stormed towards the door, Nagini hissing angrily in Bellatrix's direction.
"The House of Black has become one of traitors, and no longer worthy of their pure history," Voldemort whispered, turning back to regard his lover's form still curled on the ground. He pulled his wand from his sleeve.
"My Lord," Bellatrix pleaded, her eyes wide. "I have offered you my body, my soul--everything."
Voldemort chuckled softly. "Not everything, my dear. Never your silence. Avada kedavra."
A flash of green light overpowered the computer screen, and Draco Malfoy became the last pureblood child of the House of Black.